


Beyond the Portal

by Narya_Flame



Series: Summerland [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crossover of 'verses, Crossover of ‘The Ways of Paradox’ and ‘Dark Prince ‘verse, M/M, Mention of Maglor & OFC, Mention of Maglor/OMC, Mention of canon characters - Freeform, Mentioned: Maglor, Post-Canon, mention of incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 16:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17328578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: “And what does one do for eternity, Vanimórë, as a god?”“Let me show thee.”-Magnificat of the Damned, Book IV: Anvil, by Spiced WineThe Portal in the Timeless Halls shows every reality, every past, and every future.   Vanimórë watches, and temptation beckons...A little gift fic for Spiced Wine.  This is a short prequel to her gorgeous storySummerland, which is a crossover between her 'verse and mine.





	Beyond the Portal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spiced_Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/gifts).
  * Inspired by [~ Summerland ~](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15795351) by [Spiced_Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine). 



> I am working on a sequel to Summerland, but it has grown beyond my expectations and won't be in publishable shape for a while. This, though, demanded to be written, and should work by itself if you're familiar with both 'verses and/or the first story, or even just with the Dark Prince/Magnificat of the Damned series.

There was no time here, not in the truest sense. There was the illusion of night and day, and of the changing seasons, for the Elves loved the deepening and blurring of spring's sharp greens into the languid haze of summer, the gentle fading of gold into red as autumn drew in, the lengthening shadows and slanting black angles of winter, and the whisper of new life as the world turned on its axis again.   
  
And yet even without the passing of time, Vanimórë had changed.  
  
Elgalad sought him in the gardens, a cup of steaming spiced wine in each hand. Many Ages ago, serving as guards to a trade caravan, they had cradled goblets of this stuff on cold autumn nights, when they had lain together wrapped in furs in draught-riddled inns, or by the side of some dark, meandering road – or else in Imladris or New Cuiviénen after the Ring War, growing used to one another, basking in the appearance of freedom and yet never, quite, trusting it. Of course they had no need of the drink's warmth now, but the sweet smell curling from the berry-red wine was ripe with the memory of that earlier Age. Harder times, and yet simpler too.  
  
He found him by the Portal's edge. Night-black hair poured from its high plume like liquid silk. Starlight gleamed within it, cool and silver-white. He sat with one arm draped over a raised knee, carven face inscrutable – but he looked up at Elgalad's approach, and he smiled the smile that had brought gods to their knees.  
  
“I knew that thou wouldst search for me.”  
  
Elgalad handed him one of the cups and seated himself opposite Vanimórë. “Thou art preoccupied, my dear. What troubles thee?”  
  
“Look.”  
  
Inside the Portal swam a sky like a watered paint palette. Pools of violet bled into jade; peach and scarlet were streaked with trails of white. The sun set over a small clifftop town, bathing jagged ruins in warm, gentle gold. Gulls whirled above crumbling towers. Grasses and ferns waved in the breeze. A long pier of pink-and-honey stone reached out into a foam-flecked sea, and waves crashed and spumed at its tip. Somewhere out of sight, a bell chimed, and a choir sang a solemn song of remembrance and joy. “What is that place?”  
  
“A town called St Andrews. It belongs to another Earth, at once like and unlike ours.” Vanimórë ran the tip of one finger across the Portal's surface. V-shaped ripples unfolded behind it, and in their wake, images – a flat, gleaming beach at dawn; crowds of chattering people in cobbled streets; woodland; wrought iron gateways; stone quadrangles; slate spires; laughing faces, most of them very young. “Charming, is it not?”  
  
“Lovely.” Elgalad met his gaze. “But what about it concerns thee so?”  
  
Vanimórë sighed and passed a hand over the Portal again, and this time the ripples coalesced into a face they both knew – sharp lines like chiselled marble; a mane of thick, black hair; eyes full of flame and ancient, unfathomable grief. Yet this Maglor was not theirs. Fine lines sat at the corners of his eyes. Light touches of silver threaded his hair, and etched across his countenance was an aching loneliness that, for their Maglor, had in part been eased by Ages in the presence of his family. He did not look old, but rather worn down, resigned – and yet still defiant. He held his head proudly, and beneath the sorrow he  _burned_ , smouldered like the white hot embers at the heart of a fire.   
  
He grew smaller, and the image widened to encompass his surroundings. He was clad in dark clothes in cuts and fabrics that Elgalad found strange, and above him the clouds deepened into the lowering grey of a brewing storm. He walked along the same stretch of sand that Elgalad had seen before. Behind him, the town of St Andrews stretched into the distance, its towers and ruins now dark smudges against the scowling sky.  
  
“What happened?” Elgalad murmured.   
  
“The more pertinent question is what did  _not_  happen. The Vanimórë of that world died in the War of Wrath.” He cupped Elgalad's cheek tenderly. “Thou wert never born to Nimrodel, not there, and so thou wert not slain by the shores of the sea. There was no apotheosis. Fëanor and his kin were never reborn.” Like magnets, his eyes were drawn back to the Portal. “In that world, Maglor has wandered for untold Ages.” Lightly he touched the shimmering surface, and the years of Maglor's life danced cruelly before them. He drifted through the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil, caressing the shattered stonework and sifting through the wreckage for something – anything – that had survived the destruction. He watched from the shadows as ships departed the Havens for the West. He shielded his face with his arms as fire and ash poured from the sky. He walked the streets of beautiful cities under a rich red sun – and then war came again, a terrible wasteland of seeping mud, the reek of death, of sulphur, and fumes as bitter as any that had ever risen from Angband or Barad-dûr. A terrible explosion, a searing plume of orange and black, and Maglor lay sprawled on the filthy ground, eyes closed, blood blossoming from a deep wound in his gut.  
  
Elgalad hissed.  
  
“It has not all been like this.” Vanimórë took a sip of wine and showed another series of images – Maglor by a campfire, sharing ale with a group of men and women in rough woollen clothes. Maglor clad in green, kissing the brow of a handsome young man in a bright red tunic. Maglor wearing the fierce frown that Elgalad knew so well, quill in hand, musical notations flying from its tip. “He has known companionship, and even joy, from time to time, but he has had very few true friends.” He drew one final image to the surface – a young woman with intelligent eyes, a laughing smile, and hair the colour of blushing gold. “And she is one.”  
  
Elgalad tilted his head, nothing the lift of her chin, the determined lines of her face – and, like a shadow's whisper, the memory of grief that flickered behind her smile. “Who is she?”  
  
“Her name is Claire James. She is a student at the university in St Andrews.” They watched as she and Maglor laughed together in a dark, wood-panelled room, glasses of an amber spirit cradled in their hands. Elgalad smiled at the sight of Maglor performing on stage in a ridiculous costume, playing at swordfighting with a sandy-haired, merry-faced boy, while Claire James looked on from the wings, giggling and shaking her head. Later he saw Maglor and Claire again. Night had fallen; they lounged comfortably together on a battered couch, legs intertwined, talking quietly while a candle flickered on the bookshelf behind them. “She does not know what Maglor is, not yet, but she senses something.”  
  
“She has Elvish blood?”  
  
“I suspect so – although I cannot say for certain, not from here.”  
  
Elgalad nodded. “And it draws them together.”  
  
“Perhaps. From what I have seen, she is a lovely, clever and accepting young woman. I do not wonder that he cares for her.” He gave an elegant shrug.   
  
The nonchalant gesture did nothing to fool Elgalad. He looked back at Maglor's face in the Portal, its sharp lines softened, silver eyes warm with affection, and then back at Vanimórë. Always, in this world, there had been a strange bond between those two – a heady mingling of sex and hatred and debt, and shot through it all like lightning at the head of a storm, the deep, fiery love of kin. If the Maglor of the other world had been alone for so long, and had found friendship and happiness with this young woman named Claire, then it was little wonder that Vanimórë had taken an interest. “How does it end for them?”  
  
“If things remain unchanged, then in sorrow.” Vanimórë gave a bleak smile. “How else could it end, between an Elf and a mortal woman?”  
  
“Indeed.” Elgalad brushed the surface of the portal. It hissed faintly, and the air tasted of salt and metal and ice. Maglor and Claire and their pretty town vanished into darkness. “If things remain unchanged.”  
  
Violet eyes met rain-grey, and Vanimórë's smile slanted teasingly. “Of course, I cannot interfere.”  
  
“No, of course not.” Elgalad drained his glass, and his mouth curled with amusement. “So tell me, my dear – what dost thou have in mind?”


End file.
